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Zack couldn't remember exactly when all his food started tasting like sandpaper.
It had to have been at least a few years, as everything in his pantry has been so hard to differentiate for so long. He couldn't even remember the taste of lasagna. And Zack fucking loved lasagna.
Or at least, he thought he did. It had been so long since he had lasagna without it tasting like coarse sand. The original flavors were all slowly fading from his memory. So maybe lasagna wasn't his favorite food after all, maybe that was just what his mind was telling him. But then again, he probably shouldn't trust his mind too much because his mind tells him a lot of things. Like how his stomach juts out too much and how his thigh gap is gone. Or how its awfully silent in his house because he lives alone and he better get used to that. Or how when the few times where he does have people over, he shouldn't wish for them to stay because it would be an inconvenience. His mind loved to talk. And despite the fact that he hated to, he always chose to listen.
He didn't have to. He definitely didn't want to. But Zack never stopped listening. It was like every time he tried shutting his mind out, there was always something that made his mind even louder and more impossible to ignore. Almost like an annoying mosquito bite that's too large and itchy to resist scratching at. It wasn't like he could physically do anything about it. Not only is there no such thing as brain ointment, but his mind wasn't just a wound on his skin that would fade away in a few days. His mind was a part of him. A part of him that just never seemed to leave him the fuck alone, but a part of him nonetheless.
Zack sighed, placing his leftovers back in the fridge and hoping that tomorrow they would taste better (they won't. He knows that they won't). And right as the refrigerator door slammed shut, his mind started talking again.
Listen to the echo. Look at how there's no other sound. Look at how lonely you are.
As much as he wanted to ignore it, he couldn't help but notice how deafening the silence was after the echo had died down. He fought the urge to flinch at the lack of sound. Normal people don't flinch when nothing happens. But normal people also didn't have their entire body feel like TV static. Normal people didn't constantly have to rub their temples in an attempt to get their mind to quiet down. Normal people didn't need to pinch their forearms in order to make sure that their static bodies could at least register pain.
He wasn't normal. And he never will be.
And with that realization, Zack decided that he had done enough thinking for today and quickly made his way to the bathroom, hoping that maybe-just maybe-that his mind would let him shower in peace. If only life were that simple.
He accidentally stumbled over himself when he reached the bathroom door. Can't even make it across the room without tripping. A two-year-old has better coordination than you.
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror for a good ten minutes, rubbing his tired eyes. You can't tell me that you think you look good. Do you honestly expect anyone to be with you when you look like this?
He stepped into the shower, surrounding himself in a stream of scalding hot water. You really think that hot water burns are going to be satisfying enough? Nothing will ever be that satisfying and you know it.
When Zack made it to his couch fully-clothed and red in the face, he let out a dry laugh.
He had walked into the bathroom with a five o'clock shadow, a body feeling like static, and a mind that didn't seem to know how to shut the fuck up. He walked out of the bathroom with a clean-shaven face and burning thighs. But hey, at least his mind was finally quiet.
He knew it wouldn't last. It never does. Hell, his mind is never actually quiet. It just goes from degrading him every three seconds to fuzzy static. It's almost like there's a role reversal within himself. When his body is static, his mind is a blabbermouth that loves reminding him how worthless he is. When his mind produces white noise, the stinging sensation he feels on his thighs make it impossible to move without feeling pain. There's never any quiet within him. Some days his mind is too loud. Some days his body is too loud. And the days where they are simultaneously loud are the worst days.
Those days are where Zack's mind decided to recover from its static state just a little earlier than normal and it goes back to doing what it did best. Those days are where the fabric rubbing against his thighs sting more than usual. Those days are where both his mind and his body team up to create the worst collection of noise that Zack has heard in his life and he knows that the only way he could finally-finally-get both to stop is if he goes into his bathroom and pushes his razor so far down into his veins that the noise stops and he never opens his eyes again.
He hasn't had one of those worst days in a while. Both his mind and body have been doing relatively decent jobs at taking turns ever since he had accidentally gone too far and made his wrists sting along with his thighs a couple of days before Christmas. He flew to Nashville for Rian's Christmas party the next day and made the grave mistake of wearing an over-sized ugly Christmas sweater that made his sleeves roll down whenever he lifted his arms up. Needless to say, it was pretty hard to come up with a reason as to why he had a bandage around both of his wrists. Especially coming up with one that would convince his bandmates-the boys that he sees as brothers-that he was okay. He was ultimately able to get away with saying that it was just a past habit and that he wore the bandages because the scarring was still there and he was insecure about it. And after falsely reassuring the boys that he'd come to them next time he had a problem and parting with tight hugs from each of them, he vowed to stick to his thighs from then on and his mind and body settled for taking turns ever since. He should be relieved.
But it wouldn't be life if it were that easy.
Of course Zack couldn't be an optimist. His mind couldn't just be good at tearing him down. It just had to be the best at overthinking as well. Even with the steady stream of alternating silence, he just had to worry about when his next worst day was going to be. Every good day that he has, those rare days where he's able to successfully block out the noise inside him and just live as any normal person would, they just have to be flukes. They just existed to mock him, give him hope that he'll eventually be able to silence his mind completely only to have his mind become noisier the next day.
He wanted to prove his mind wrong. He wanted to feel like everyday was a day closer to finally muting the noise and being at peace with himself. But instead he just felt like he was getting closer and closer to accepting that he'll never break free from the constant noise. Whether it was the sting of his thighs or the sneers coming from his mind, there was never going to be a time where he would hear peaceful silence. He would be stuck alone with nothing but the noise to accompany him.